Page 30 of South of The Skyway

She blinked, brow furrowing again. Jesus, she had a jawline women would die for. Like some sort of sentient sculpture. “You live south of the Skyway?”

“The what?” My backpack shifted against my shoulders as I adjusted the weight of it.

“The terrifying, four-mile bridge over the bay?!”

“Oh!” I laughed. St. Pete and the lower cities were separated by a solid five-minute drive over the Tampa Bay, connected only by an enormous, towering testament to modern architecture. Great columns erected from the water, propping the roadway high enough that the tallest of barges could glide right under it with plenty of room to spare. Without it, the drive into the city would have been double or triple the time. Although where she said ‘terrifying’, I said ‘breathtaking’. You could see for miles in both directions. Shrugging, I added, “Hell of a view up there. Loved the pelicans.”

Her eye roll was legendary as she sighed, “That’sthe Skyway.”

“Fitting moniker.”

“What in the hell are you doing up here?”

“Looking for commercial real estate.”

“I know. But why? You livesouthof theSkyway.”

My grin earned a bemused expression, those glossed lips twisting in a smirk. I wanted to lick it off her. Taste each inch. Fuck, to feel them wrapped around my dick…

Reminding myself I wasn’t a freaking animal, I stated, “You’re gonna have to translate for me here, Brex.”

“Nobody really goes south of the Skyway,” Noel offered. “And people down there don’t really come up here.”

“What?” I laughed. “That’s ridiculous. It’s a bridge.”

“Why fight traffic on a four-mile bridge when we have everything we need on our side of the damn thing?”

“For one, I had the best sushi of my life last night.”

“There’s sushi in Sarasota.”

“Second, the demographics in St. Pete are better for my business.”

The glare she shot me was nearly conspiratorial. “Plenty of patrons in your neck of the woods.”

“Is this, like, a west side, east side kind of thing?”

Noel shook her head, grinning. “There aren’t any rules or anything, we just…”

“Don’t do it,” Brexley supplied, finishing her sentence. She leaned over to steal Noel’s mug, sipping her tea.

“Well, there’s a first for everything.”

“Where’s this bar, hotshot?”

I was suddenly aware they outnumbered me, and they looked infinitely amused. “This side of the bridge, I swear.”

“Fine,” Brexley said, huffing a breath.

“What?” I scoffed.

“Text me the address.”

My cheeks were aching; I was smiling so much. In an effort to not sound too damn pathetic, I kept the response short. “Yeah?”

“No promises,” she warned.

THIRTEEN

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